Once the cleaned-up waiter had shuffled back out into the hall, domed tray once more in his hands, Jean-Julien left the room and headed for the elevator.
All he could do now was wait for the right moment to end Kallie Rivière’s existence. In the meantime, he might visit the outdoor carnival, then see where Belladonna Brown’s room was located.
Who knew who he might run into?
TWENTY-TWO
LEPRECHAUN’S GOLD
The latex Closet turned out to be a small blues bar tucked in between a gentlemen’s club and a strip joint—both featuring nude males and females. Kallie barely managed to keep from decking the persistent barkers who tried to lure her into both as either a tourist to rip off or a potential new nude dancer.
She slipped into the darkened bar, the door swinging shut on the noise from the street behind her—“This way, ladies and gents! Live nudes! Sex shows! Smokin’ hot! Sexy! C’mon in! You ain’t seen nuthin’ like this!”—and searched the crowded and smoky interior for Augustine.
A blues trio performed on a small stage at the far end of the room, their faces—white, black, and in between—lit by a blue spotlight. The music spilling out from their guitars and bass sounded original, an up-tempo walking-out-onmy-baby song, sung by the white guy in a raspy growl.
Ceiling fans swirled the smells of beer and cherry-tobacco pipe smoke and fresh popcorn through the warm, humid air.
Kallie spotted Augustine—well, Layne—sitting at a table near the bar, his dreads knotted back from his handsome face, and her pulse pounded just a little harder. Augustine, she reminded herself. Not Layne. His attention was fixed on his laptop as his fingers pecked away at the keyboard. A large blue plastic crate and a half-filled beer stein rested beside the laptop.
She worked her way over to the table. “Hey,” she greeted him.
Layne-Augustine glanced at her. “I appreciate you coming in, Ms. Rivière. Please sit down. I just need a moment to finish this blasted recommendation for an interim master.”
“Look, can we drop the ‘Ms. Rivière’ bullshit? Just call me Kallie, okay?” The British accent coupled with the nomad’s face kept throwing her. She wondered when Augustine planned to leave Layne’s body.
“Kallie it is,” Layne-Augustine agreed. “You may call me Lord Basil.”
“Lucky me,” Kallie muttered, pulling out a chair and plopping into it.
A few more pecks at the keyboard, then, “There. Sent.” Layne-Augustine picked up his beer stein and sat back in his chair. He saluted Kallie with the mug. “Bureaucracy continues even after one dies, apparently.” He took a long swallow of the dark, foamy brew.
“Well, that sucks, for true,” Kallie sympathized. A waitress in a red skirt and black apron paused by the table and Kallie ordered the one-dollar strawberry daiquiri special.
Layne-Augustine set his stein back on the table, then stood and dug through the plastic crate. “I just have a few questions for you.”
“I’ve got a few questions of my own,” Kallie said. Her gaze swept over him from head to toe, taking in the sharp-fitting French-blue shirt and charcoal trousers. Mmm-mmm. Cleans up well. She shook her head, a smile curving her lips. “The leprechaun’s gonna kill you.”
Layne-Augustine pulled a skimpy-looking manila folder from the crate and looked at her, expression puzzled. “Leprechaun? I haven’t stolen a pot of gold.”
“Um . . . yeah, you have. The pot of gold’s name is Layne, and his ex was pretty clear about you leaving him as is.”
“Are you calling Ms. Blue a leprechaun?”
“Possibly.”
Layne-Augustine’s lips twitched into a smile. “I don’t see how she could object to improving Valin’s fashion sense—which wouldn’t take much.” He smoothed a hand along the front of his shirt. A dreamy expression flickered across his face. “So tight,” he murmured.
“Excuse me?”
The Brit’s hand dropped from his shirt as though scalded, and the dreaminess vanished from his eyes. He cleared his throat. “Ahem. The shirt . . . it’s a tad tight. But as to the other matter, I doubt very much that Ms. Blue will kill me. Not while I reside within Valin.”
Kallie lifted her eyebrows. Good save, but she didn’t believe for a single second that his “so tight” comment had been referring to the shirt, which looked like it fit just fine. “She probably wouldn’t,” Kallie agreed.
The waitress placed the cheap-ass strawberry daiquiri—should be the state drink, it’s as common as mosquitoes here—in a frosted glass in front of her. “Thanks.” Kallie handed her three ones for the one-dollar drink and told her to keep the change.
With a quick smile, the waitress disappeared into the crowd.
Tapping the worn folder against the table’s edge, Layne-Augustine sat back down. “You mentioned that you had questions,” he said. “What are they?”
Kallie leaned forward in her chair and rested her elbows on the table. “What have you learned about that Rosette chick? Did you search her home?”
Layne-Augustine nodded. “We did indeed search Ms. St. Cyr’s apartment, and we recovered a few items of interest.”
“Rosette St. Cyr,” Kallie said, kicking the name around her memory. “Never heard of her. What did you find?” She took a sip of her icy drink, the strong taste of rum blotting out the strawberry sweetness. She stirred it with her finger.
“Pictures of you, your cousin, Mr. Brûler, and your aunt, plus information on all of you,” Layne-Augustine replied. “It seems that her vendetta against your family is quite personal. But as to the reason why . . .” He shrugged one shoulder.
“Did you find any herbs or potions? How about an altar?”
“Yes, on all counts.”
“Show me her conjuring stuff,” Kallie said, rising to her feet.
Layne-Augustine nodded at the plastic crate sitting on top of the table. “It’s right there, Ms. . . . Kallie. Please take a look.”
Pushing her hair back over her shoulders, Kallie peered into the crate. Herbs and gnarled roots and potions in glass bottles; powders; piles of cloth, sticks, needles, and thread for making poppets; mojo bags; candles of all colors, and statuettes; small jars of graveyard dirt and nails; and a mortar and pestle. Nothing unusual, hoodoo-wise. She reached in and rummaged through the items. The nostril-pinching reek of sulfur mixed with anise wafted into the air.
“Magic tends to be odorous at the best of times,” Layne-Augustine said, fanning the air in front of his face, Kallie sneezed. “No argument here.” She lifted a small bottle filled with an amber-colored fluid into the light. Little bits of material—leaves and maybe a tiny chunk of root—floated in it. Looked like an attraction oil. “Have you questioned the bitch yet? All she told me was that I could thank my aunt for my troubles and that—”
“An eye for an eye is never enough,” Layne-Augustine finished. “We’ve tried, but with no success. She refuses to speak.”
Kallie returned the bottle to the crate and looked at Augustine. “So how come you ain’t cast a truth spell on her?”
“Because forcing the truth via spell can result in brain damage. For the recipient, that is, not the caster.”
Applause rippled through the bar as the blues trio ended one song, then started another, this one a low-voiced let-me-back-into-your bed number with a sexy bass throb. Enthusiastic whistles followed.
“Then what’s the problem?” she asked.
“Since we might only have one shot at it, I’d prefer to wait until Mr. Buckland’s family is present to hear that final truth.”
Understanding and sorrow washed through Kallie. She had a feeling that the truth—that Gage had been killed by mistake—would give his family very little peace. But Augustine was right. They should be allowed to hear that truth, no matter how bitter, from the lips of Gage’s killer.
“Fair enough,” she said. “I’d like to be there as well.”
“I don’t see why that can’t be arranged,” Layne-Augustine said. “Do you see an
ything of interest in the crate?”
“That’s the problem,” Kallie said, frowning. She held up a Blessed Mother statue—a crowned figure of the Virgin Mary holding an infant Jesus—and pointed it like a finger at the Brit. “What’s interesting are the things I don’t see, and I don’t see the components necessary for a hex as complicated as the one on my mattress. She’s got a few of the ingredients, like wormwood, sulfur, and graveyard dirt, but not the dark elements needed for a hex like that—like bones and skin and blood.”
“She could’ve hidden those ingredients, and it’s possible my guards missed them, but I believe we suspect the same thing,” Layne-Augustine said. “That Rosette St. Cyr didn’t create the hex—not alone, anyway.”
“Who could’ve helped her?” Kallie asked, replacing the statuette inside the crate.
“I suspect her father. I’ve learned that he was a root doctor and perhaps he still is, but I have nothing that indicates he’s in New Orleans. His last known address was in Delacroix, Louisiana.”
“Not too far from where I live,” Kallie mused. Finished with her search of the crate, she dusted off her hands and sat back down. “So he’s a root doctor? What name’s he known by?”
“Doctor Heron.”
Kallie stared at the Brit, heart racing. “Holy shit! I’ve heard of him. My tante used to tell me horror stories about Doctor Heron at bedtime, about the evil hoodoo who’d poisoned and killed all his clients. I thought she’d made it all up.”
“No, indeed not.” An amused light gleamed in Layne-Augustine’s eyes. “Jean-Julien St. Cyr was convicted of multiple murders and sentenced to twenty-five years in prison. He was released last month. Do you know if your aunt knew the man? Have you spoken to your aunt about what’s happened here?”
Kallie tensed. “Not yet. But Gabrielle never acted like she actually knew Doctor Heron. She only told me stories about him like he was the Freddy Krueger of hoodoo or something.” She downed the rest of her daiquiri.
“Would Doctor Heron have the skill to instruct Rosette on how to construct a soul-killing hex?”
“Sure, if even half of what my tante told me was true. But she’d still need to possess the strength of will to imbue the hex with power. I ain’t sure she’s got that level of skill.”
“But it’s possible that she does?”
“Sure, anything’s possible.”
Layne-Augustine studied her for a moment before saying, “Is it also possible that your aunt was responsible for what happened to Jean-Julien St. Cyr, possible she turned him in to the police?”
“She’s never mentioned anything like that. Never even hinted, so I don’t know.” She held the Brit’s gaze, feeling cold inside. “Is that what Rosette thinks?”
What if it’s true? What if Gabrielle knew this might happen, but never said a goddamned word, just sent Dallas instead? Maybe that’s what he’s hiding.
“I’m merely making an educated guess. And even if the St. Cyrs do believe your aunt was responsible, it doesn’t mean she actually was,” Layne-Augustine ruminated. “But there must’ve been a good reason for them to think her guilty in the first place.”
“Dunno about that—a good reason and all,” Kallie said. “Rosette seemed a little on the crazy side to me.” The waitress pushed through the crowd to the table, and Kallie ordered another daiquiri, her headache all but gone. “What about Rosette’s mama? She a hoodoo too?”
“No. Babette St. Cyr died of cancer ten years ago in Delacroix.”
Layne-Augustine tossed his head as though to flip his hair out of his eyes—the short hair on the body he no longer possessed—and Kallie choked back a laugh at the startled look on his face when the weight of Layne’s dreads pulled his head to one side.
“Bugger,” he muttered, rubbing his neck. “I agree, however, with your assessment of Ms. St. Cyr’s sanity. For her to dust-drug two guards and steal one of their guns in the hope of shooting you dead . . . hardly seems rational.”
“Seems desperate,” Kallie said.
“Indeed.” Layne-Augustine finished his beer.
Guilt coiled and looped through Kallie. “I’m sorry you’re the one who ended up dead instead of her,” she said. “What’s going to happen to the murdering bitch? Are you handing her over to the nomads?”
“I am,” he said. “And the clans will agree with her ‘an eye for an eye is never enough’ belief. Given what she did to Mr. Buckland, I doubt her death will be pleasant.”
“Will they kill her soul too?”
“I couldn’t say. I’ve never witnessed nomads carrying out a death sentence—and, trust me, I’m quite sure that is what she faces.”
“She killed you too,” Kallie said quietly. “Do you want to see her die?”
Something bleak and cold breezed through Layne-Augustine’s eyes. “I believe so. But how that will reconcile me to the fact of my own death, I don’t know.”
“I can’t imagine what you’re going through,” Kallie said, voice soft. She pulled her hair over her shoulder, sectioned it, then started braiding. The mindless motion soothed her.
“I think that’s a lie. I believe you can imagine what I’m feeling quite well. You stared at death point-blank when you saw your mother murder your father, then turn the gun on you. ‘Fell out of a swing’ indeed.”
Kallie’s fingers stilled in her hair. She glared at the Brit. “You goddamned sonuvabitch, you just had to go digging.”
“I did indeed,” he said. “But the maid had a file on you with the same information, so I would have learned about the murder attempt regardless.”
“Okay, so you’re an honest goddamned sonuvabitch,” Kallie muttered. She unthreaded her hair, then shook it all loose with her hands. “But just because my mama shot me doesn’t mean I have any idea what you’re going through. I didn’t die—in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“But you believed you were about to die just like your father. You believed everything was about to end with your blood sprayed on the walls.”
“So what? It’s not the same as being dead.”
Layne-Augustine folded his arms over his chest, looking unconvinced. “I suppose not.”
“You have to vacate Layne’s body soon. What happens to you then?”
“I don’t know,” the Brit answered, voice low. “I have hopes that an angelic chorus will be kind enough to guide me. I shall find out in due time.”
The waitress delivered another frosty daiquiri to the table, then scooped up Kallie’s empty glass and the cash she’d left beside it. Kallie stirred this one first before taking a sip.
“I have a theory that your aunt and Rosette’s father were once lovers.”
Kallie choked on the daiquiri, nearly squirting it from her nostrils. She launched into a volley of hard, gasping coughs. Layne-Augustine leaned across the table and thumped his hand against her back. “Usually best not to inhale one’s liquor,” he murmured.
Once the coughing stopped and she could breathe again, Kallie wiped at her watering eyes and croaked, “Lovers? My aunt and Doctor Heron? You kidding me?”
“No, just theorizing. Would you care to hear possibilities of what might’ve happened between them?”
“Christ,” Kallie muttered, taking another, careful swallow of her drink. “Go ahead.”
Brow furrowed in thought, Layne-Augustine folded his arms over his chest and said, “Possibility one: Perhaps the lovers argue over Jean-Julien’s less-than-ethical practice of using high dosages of potentially toxic herbs and roots. The lovers part on bad terms. Jean-Julien’s clients start dropping like flies. Maybe the deaths are unintentional, just carelessness on his part, but that doesn’t matter. Murder is murder. Gabrielle—whether inspired by spite or compassion—phones the police anonymously and gives her now-former lover up.
“Possibility two: Exactly the same as the first, except Gabrielle doesn’t phone the police, doesn’t give Jean-Julien up. But he believes she has.
“Possibility three: For whatever reasons, t
he lovers part on bad terms. Furious at his rejection, Gabrielle adds toxic levels of herbs or roots to Jean-Julien’s most popular potions and powders. When his clients die, the police look at the root doctor who had potioned them up. He’s convicted of murders of which he is innocent, while Gabrielle remains silent.
“Possibility four: Jean-Julien knows he screwed up the dosages and doesn’t place any blame on Gabrielle. But once his daughter grows up, she does.
“And possibility five: None of the above.”
“But what makes you think Gabrielle and Jean-Julien were lovers?”
Layne-Augustine slid the worn manila folder across the table to her. “Take a look at those photos. See what you think.”
“Okay.” Kallie flipped the folder open and picked up the small, tattered Polaroid on top. She studied the young woman captured within it, guessing her to be about her own age, maybe a few years older. The woman gave a sultry glance from beneath her lashes over one smooth, bare shoulder, her lips curved into a flirtatious smile for whoever was taking the picture—a lover, most likely, given the sexiness of the pose and expression, or a soon-to-be lover.
“Look at the back,” Layne-Augustine urged.
Kallie turned the photo over. GABI was written across the top in black marker, each letter traced over more than once, like a man trailing a finger over a woman’s face, memorizing its contours. Or like a hoodoo writing a name or command repeatedly on a piece of paper to complete a spell.
Kallie looked at the front again and studied it. The woman was beautiful and in love.
“The other photo is more recent.”
Kallie set the Polaroid down and looked at the other photo. The same woman, but a couple of decades older, her face thinner, her curls more gray than black, the joy leached out of her.
“So who is she?” Kallie asked, looking up.
Layne-Augustine stared at her. “Your aunt. Gabrielle LaRue.”
TWENTY-THREE
UGLY POSSIBILITIES
Kallie looked down at the photo, her pulse drumming through her veins. “I don’t know who that woman is, but she ain’t my aunt.”
Black Dust Mambo Page 21
